Early in March the remnants of the army stood on the quayside in Bremen, under the silent and hostile gaze of the inhabitants of the port. All sense of a common bond in the war against France had fallen away and the former allies now blamed each other for their failures on the battlefield. As Arthur inspected the tattered survivors of his brigade he saw that many of them were broken men, who would be little use to Britain in the years to come. They would return to their homes in the country or the city slums and eke out their lives in the shadow of this terrible experience. But there were others, strong men, who drew themselves up and refused to bow to the suffering that they had endured. As Arthur looked on them, he was grateful that his country could produce such soldiers. For Britain would surely need them in the years to come. At that thought he looked at them again, with pity this time.There was so much more that they would have to endure before their nation eventually prevailed. And when it was all over, and peace returned to the world, how few of them would be left to see that day?
A British fleet of warships lay at anchor outside the harbour, denied permission to enter by the Bremen port-master. And so their longboats plied the long route into Bremen to pick up the survivors of the army. Arthur and Fitzroy boarded the last of the boats to carry the brigade to the ships that would transport them back to Britain. The seamen showed none of their usual rivalry with men from the other service and instead treated them with the compassion of old friends, thrusting ship’s biscuits and mugs of ale into their hands as they took them into the warm fug below the decks of the warships. Arthur remained by the rail for a while, staring back at the land as the seaman hoisted the boats back on to their chocks and made the vessel ready to sail.
‘Colonel Wesley?’
Arthur turned and saw the ship’s captain approaching him from the quarterdeck. They shook hands and then the captain nodded towards the last of the soldiers being shown below deck. ‘I was under the impression that we would be taking more of you home from Bremen. Where’s the rest of the army?’
Arthur smiled faintly. ‘This is all that’s left. The rest are gone.’
‘Gone?’ The captain shook his head. ‘What a waste. I wonder what they will say back in England? There will be repercussions.’
‘I hope so.We can’t afford to fight another campaign like this.’
‘Yes, well, of course not.’The captain smiled and patted Arthur on the arm. ‘Anyway, it’s all over now.’
Arthur shook his head. He felt old and tired and defeated. But even now, his heart burned to avenge that defeat. He had survived the worst that war could throw at him. He had seen the face of battle, witnessed the harrowing torments of retreat, and endured the heartless inefficiency and corruption of those who had mismanaged the campaign. He had survived it all and knew, with all the certainty of a religious conversion, that he was a soldier, and that he had a duty. A duty far more sacred than anything he had experienced in his life so far. He must fight to save his country and, if need be, die in her service. He turned to face the captain.
‘Over? No, you’re wrong. Quite wrong. It’s only just begun.’
Epilogue
The passing of booted feet, horses’ legs and carriage wheels up at the window did nothing to distract Henry Arbuthnot as he went about his work. He had become so used to the passing traffic that the window was no more than a source of illumination to him. Arbuthnot had spent the last five years working in this large office in the basement of an anonymous house in Whitehall rented by the Cabinet Office. The rent, like the rest of the costs of this department, was concealed from the scrutiny of parliament. Indeed, very few people were even aware that the department existed at all, and paid little heed to the premises described by a small, neatly painted sign, as the Oriental Ware Trading Company. This obscurity pleased Arbuthnot, since the work of the department was best conducted with as much discretion as possible.Very few of the senior officers of the army and navy had any knowledge of the department’s activities, which was ironic, Arbuthnot reflected, given how often their orders were determined as a result of the reports produced by the department for Mr Pitt and his Secretary at War.
Every day Arbuthnot’s subordinates sifted through foreign newspapers, dispatches from embassies and coded messages from agents scattered across the known world - an immense amount of detail that had to be scrutinised for any nugget of information of value to those who drew up British policy, and to those who saw that the path of the same policy was smoothed by discreetly deployed bribery, sabotage, misinformation and, occasionally, assassination.
A small part of the department’s work was to provide analysis of military campaigns of British forces, as well as those of Britain’s allies and enemies, the purpose of this being to identify ways of improving the operational effectiveness. Even if this meant swallowing national pride to steal ideas from other nations. Not that such ideas were often implemented, Arbuthnot thought sadly. The prejudices of politicians and senior officers were often an insurmountable obstacle to improving the performance of the men they sent to war. So the department’s victories in this field were few and far between, and Arbuthnot had resigned himself to a gradualist philosophy of placing morsels of intelligence before his superiors until they understood the issue well enough to claim the ideas as their own. However frustrating that might be, at least it ensured that the right decisions were taken, more often than not. Albeit more often too late than timely. But the department had to work in the real world where rationality was the poor second cousin to political expediency.
Part of the department’s analysis of military activity was intended to provide information on the officers involved. It was as well to know the strengths and weaknesses of the men who led the armies of the day, and those who would lead armies in future years, should they survive the fortunes of war. Accordingly, thousands of files were kept in the records section in the building’s cellars, organised by nationality and cross-indexed by rank and speciality. With the opening of a new war in Europe Arbuthnot’s department had opened scores of new files in recent months, several of which had recently been completed and submitted to Arbuthnot for approval before being placed in the archive.
He had been working through them all morning and just when the mass of detail and analysis began to pall he had encountered a file that arrested his attention, perhaps because Arbuthnot had personally overseen the study carried out on the disaster at Toulon. The officer’s name was already known to him from the initial sketchy reports from agents in France, and here it was again. Brigadier Napoleon Buona Parte, or Bonaparte, as he signed himself more recently. As Arbuthnot read on it was clear that the rapidly promoted young man was far more gifted in military arts than the vast majority of his peers. If the war against France continued for several more years then this man Bonaparte would bear watching closely, for he could represent a considerable challenge to British arms. Arbuthnot finished the report and, after a moment’s thought, added a comment that the file was to be given priority status. From now on Bonaparte’s career would be closely followed by eyes far from his new home in France.
Arbuthnot quickly skimmed back over the biographical details and was about to close the folder when his gaze was arrested by a small detail. Nothing of great consequence, but a coincidence all the same. He reached over for the files he had read earlier on, sorting through those coded for British officers until he found the one he wanted: a slim file, still to be filled out as its subject gathered experience and gained promotion.
‘Colonel Arthur Wesley,’ Arbuthnot muttered. He flicked the folder open and ran his eyes down the brief notes on the first page. The colonel was one of the few men to emerge from the Flanders débâcle with his reputation intact.A good combat record and an officer who clearly looked after his men and had their full confidence. Then Arbuthnot came across the section that had jogged his memory.
‘Born in the same year,’ he muttered. ‘Raised as a provincial aristocrat … father died early … hmm.’ He slid the two files towards each other. Bonaparte and Wesley. Two young men with considerable promise. Both of whom were precisely the kind of men that their nations so desperately needed in the epic struggle that was to come. Arbuthnot smiled. If the war dragged on for many years there was every chance that both would be dead before it was over. But if they survived, if they prospered and won the promotion they so evidently deserved, that left the fascinating prospect of what might happen should they ever meet on the battlefield.
The end of Volume 1
Author’s Note
When writing about historical giants like Napoleon Buona Parte and Arthur Wesley, an author is provided with a stark contrast between the monolithic body of work on the former and the somewhat more limited coverage provided for the latter. As I started work on
Young Bloods
, I came across a bibliography of books on Napoleon that ran to over 100,000 entries.Wellington-related books rate only a fraction of that number. This is understandable given that Napoleon was, after all, an emperor as well as a general and had a stellar career, thanks to the Revolution and a huge helping of good luck. Take, for example, that incredibly misjudged and foolish attempt to seize the citadel at Ajaccio. He really deserved to be shot for that escapade. But, owing to the declaration of war on Austria, and thanks to the early defeats that panicked the Revolutionary government, France simply could not afford to discard promising officers from the best trained artillery school in the world. So Napoleon was spared, and promoted to captain! For those who want an excellent overview of this extraordinary man’s career, J.M.Thompson is on hand with an excellent biography,
Napoleon Bonaparte
.
By contrast, Arthur Wesley was born in the most stable of societies. Britain had worked out a political settlement a century before and enjoyed a relatively peaceful and prosperous life, while France, riddled with social division, staggered towards anarchy and the bloodshed of revolution. Arthur, born as a younger (and therefore superfluous) son into the most privileged class of society, was denied the challenges and opportunities that can turn ordinary men so swiftly into extraordinary men. His life was only given meaning by over two decades of war against France that began after the execution of King Louis XVI. Up until then, there was little to distinguish Arthur from any other dissolute young man of the aristocratic set. The frustration and ennui of those directionless years must have tormented him terribly. Worse still, as a younger son he was fated not to inherit the family’s title, nor its wealth. As such, how could he hope to win the hand of Kitty Pakenham in a world where marriage was as much a vehicle for advancement as it was an expression of affection? Arthur was looking at a future devoid of achievement and meaning. I rather think he was saved from oblivion by events in France that were to change his life, and the lives of everyone in Europe. Arthur’s opposition to the French Revolution gave him purpose, and he recognised that at once. And he knew that it would be his life’s work, to the exclusion of all else. That is why he committed that terribly significant act of destruction: the burning of his violin.
The best of the books I can recommend on Arthur Wesley is Elizabeth Longford’s
Wellington: The Years of the Sword
, a finely written and warm account. For an interesting comparison of the two men, I also recommend Andrew Roberts’
Napoleon and Wellington
, for some intriguing insights.
I am sure that many readers will be keen to read more about this fascinating period and about the two men whose careers were forged by the French Revolution. The best overview of the revolutionary period that I have come across, and a book I would heartily recommend for its accessibility and depth, is J.M Thompson’s masterly
The French Revolution
. It is hard to track the various currents of the tumultuous years at the end of the eighteenth century, and yet Thompson provides a thoroughly comprehensible account of places, events and characters.
Even though
Young Bloods
is a fictional account of the early lives of Napoleon Bonaparte and Arthur Wesley, I have made every effort to render the period, people and events as accurately as possible. Without writing a truly massive book, however, it is almost impossible to fit every detail of research into the pages of this volume. I have had to made a few omissions and shift the chronology of a handful of events for the sake of the story. In reality, Napoleon made many more visits to Corsica in the years around the Revolution, and I have had to conflate these in my story.
Likewise, for the sake of the story and to add weight to my heroes’ personalities, I have invented certain scenes. The fact that the two youngsters were in France at the same time intrigued me. What would have they made of each other if their paths had crossed? The prospect was too tempting, and too plausible, to resist. Napoleon’s early encounter with Robespierre is also imagined, and given the political fervour of Paris life at that time, equally plausible. Of course, I accept that purists may disagree with my decisions, but historical novelists have a story to tell first and foremost.
With the Revolution now firmly established, France has become a republic. She is surrounded by hostile nations and a great war of ideologies is about to be unleashed upon the peoples of Europe. For Napoleon and Arthur, the first stage of a conflict that will change the world forever has begun.
Simon Scarrow
September, 2005